


Ode for Padfoot

by PapaSmurf



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Diary/Journal, Gay, Gay Remus Lupin, Gay Sirius Black, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Marauders, POV Remus Lupin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:02:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapaSmurf/pseuds/PapaSmurf
Summary: Basically, Remus Lupin writes a letter to Sirius Black, even though the poor man died of drug overdose, as he is trying to find an answer to the point of life after his lovers death.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 4





	Ode for Padfoot

Dear Padfoot,

What dreams have I dreamt of you tonight, Sirius Black, as I study hard on ‘’Writing Fairytales and normes’’ bullshit copy.  
To me, you always seemed like a madman, which is perhaps why I liked you. Or maybe is it because I find comfort in your queer presence, the shot of literature ideas you daily give me and a hint of squeezed lime alike moral wisdom.

Did you know, Padfoot, how I always respected you, though I never agreed with your instinctual ways or your dirty thoughts.  
I hung your words on my walls and I wondered, Padfoot, why they kept tearing apart. I put your picture on my nightstand and I can’t close my eyes without flashing images of your long, black hair, your intriguing eyes, old drums and your seductive, slow voice whispering in the dead of night. Your madness.  
What dreams have I dreamt of you tonight, Pads, as I stare nonchalantly at your picture on the cover of my, or should I say, our diary and I pretend I’m speaking to you.  
Instead of answers, however, I hear the loud barks of the dirty, miserable street dogs. They sound like you, barking in the neverending night, out in the cold, without a single hint of light, no fire and no torch.

I remember you saying how an artistic mind needs alkaloids in order to be openminded, to expand their wisdom on the world. How do you call yourself an artist, if you need a bridge to help you reach the other side – to your artistic, insane side?  
And why does everyone I ever loved or admired turn out to be like you, a dog, loyal only to opiates?

  
It makes me sad, in this moonless night, that I can’t write a single story and I haven’t had any alcohol nor drugs yet, because truth be told – I’d hate it if I ended up like you.  
I want to explore the avenues, the whole boulevard of my broken, shattered mirrors. To self reflect and reach the words. Not to cross my holy bridge, as you portrayed it a while ago, but to fly over it.  
Get what it takes and leave, never visit the old side again.  
But what do you know about it, Padfoot?  
A street dog, waltzing in the dead of night. What would you know about longing and yearning, about pain and sorrow, when all you need is a meaty old bone.  
How would you embrace someone you loved, Padsy?  
Would you kiss me and tell me I deserve more than your stinky flesh, or would you give me a hand? How would you turn down the help of your friends, who are reminding you over and over again someone you love is gone? Are you aware how lonely it gets in this isolation?  
How would you remember to love again, when everyone looks fake and unworthy in comparison?

  
How I hate you tonight, my beloved Pads, I hate you more than I have ever loved you before. I long, however, for meeting you again, at least for one last time, even though you are long gone. Now that you are eternal, surrounding me with the ideas of what once was real, memories that still find a way to survive in my heart.

  
I wish I died when you did, where you did, so I wouldn’t have to write you a letter I know you can never receive. How I wish you would respond to me, even if it was in my dreams, to tell me how can I follow you and repeat the same mistakes you did. How do I die, unbloomed, without seeing the world fully grow?  
How do I light fully, without going through any weird phases and share my moonshadow with the rest of the world?

Yours,  
Moony


End file.
